


breathe.

by Angel_Bazethiel



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Burning of Riza's Back, F/M, Gen, Ishval Civil War, NOW AVAILABLE - see details on chapter 2, POV Riza Hawkeye, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Promised Day, Read by the Author, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, at least... a HOPEFUL one. bc The Author can't help it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Bazethiel/pseuds/Angel_Bazethiel
Summary: He stands about fifty meters away at a 105-degree azimuth angle.In the crosshair of your scope, his flying, sooty hood makes shadows dance across his face. There are heavy bags under his eyes, his cheeks sunken. His eyes are dull and dead, his lips straight and thin.You poise your finger on the trigger.You can end this. Right here, right now.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been fascinated with 2nd PPOV. I hope I did it justice.
> 
> Also, take note of the tags. This contains depictions of anxiety (intrusive thoughts and anxiety-induced vomiting) and panic attacks happen. Read at your own discretion.

He stands about fifty meters away at a 105-degree azimuth angle.

In the crosshair of your scope, his flying, sooty hood makes shadows dance across his face. There are heavy bags under his eyes, his cheeks sunken. His eyes are dull and dead, his lips straight and thin.

You poise your finger on the trigger.

You can end this. Right here, right now.

One bullet through his skull and another through yours. None will be the wiser. None will have a second look – a second _thought_ – of just another two soldiers fallen into battle.

You scoff through your nose and lick the front of your teeth. Your father was wrong about so many things. The military never leaves a body just decaying on the side of the road.

Instead, they throw them in a ditch to keep all the maggots and the stench in one place. Sometimes they burn them, but most of the time they couldn’t be bothered. Hundreds of faces merge in a sea of the dead. Mangled bones and stewed limbs crisscross in all directions.

You’ll be forgotten if you’d ever end up on that ditch – if _he’d_ ever end up on that ditch. The horror you begat together will be lost to the world forever.

 _I can end this_ , you think again, urging yourself to just do it. You have the perfect sight. The one clean shot. Just do it, you fucking coward.

But then he opens the door to hell before you could move another muscle.

Bright, hot light blinds you but you keep your eyes wide open. You deserve to melt them with this image, cry blood for the blood you have spilled.

Smoke cradles you like a mother would a babe – not that you know how that feels – and you suckle on her teat, take in mouthful gulps of ashen air. You deserve to be smothered on her breast.

You gave him the key and he releases the hounds. Clipping the wings of angels and dragging them down to the underworld. But you’re the one who deserves its teeth.

“ _I can end this_ ,” you say aloud. You look at him. You breathe.

Except, you can’t. Your chest becomes fuller and you try to release the pressure. Air doesn’t come out but rather the little food you’re able to keep down this morning. Spit and bits of beans spill all over your rifle. You turn away and step aside.

You bow and heave. The tangle in your gut unravels but the force of your vomit pushes on your lungs. You jab two fingers down your throat to clear it. _Anything_ just to breathe easier.

Blood pounds on your ears, on the sides of your nose bridge, on the top of your head. You retch until you taste bile and rust.

You’re so weak.

Gutless.

Disgusting.

You can’t kill the monster you created. Why?

_Because you fell in love with it._

You fall to your knees with a sad laugh. Or maybe it’s a manic wail. You can’t hear yourself. Spots fill your vision until everything is white. You choke on what’s supposed to be the scent of burning flesh and fat but you smell nothing.

You collapse on your front beside your own sick. Coarse sand caresses your cheek just as he would once. Finally, something you can sense. But the heat of it only serves as a reminder of your failure.

It cools after some time as you protect it from the scorching sun. And you breathe a little better.

You stay where you are, nestling deeper, imagining that the hard rubble is his shoulder. Thinking that if you bury yourself in the dirt with your rotting soul, maybe then will come flowers.

\--

The next time you see him, you pull the trigger.

And hit the Ishvalan behind him right between his eyes.

\--

Before you leave for home, you ask him to burn your back.

He asks in turn, “Do you really want to suffer that much? To die the most horrible death?”

You want to laugh but your chuckles get stuck in your throat. They become so strained they come out as a parody of sobs. Short, erratic gusts of breath.

A few months ago he would have been correct. But you’ve decided that you have to live. Because who else will carry the ghosts of the fallen? Who will remember their names, paint the world anew with their blood?

Who else will make sure that their deaths aren’t in vain?

You don’t want to die for death is much too kind. You deserve to live with what you’ve done. And the only way to do that is when _that thing_ on your back is gone; when you stop being the bearer of monsters.

Just as wildfires cleanse the earth so new life may begin, you should burn your own rot away.

\--

You don’t hurt afterward. Well, except for when you pull the skin around the scorched parts. Every expansion of your back is a thousand needles, so you try to breathe a little less. You count thirty-two seconds until your body forces you to take in the stale air.

You tell yourself you can do better and count forty-four. Then sixty-three.

The golden light of the setting sun peeks through your blinds when you realize you _do_ feel something. _You do feel burning._ But it’s on your throat and on your arms. From the scratches you don’t remember making.

Long gashes from just above your elbows almost to your wrists. Some are red and angry, some are pink and sad. It’s funny, you’ve never associated the color pink with sad. But as you stare at them for longer, they seem to sing a lament for what has become of your body.

You regret it. You know you did. No matter what you tell him or yourself. _You regret it._

You lie because you want your pain to have meaning. But you don’t deserve that satisfaction. You deserve all the shame you’re feeling. Let it consume you. Let it embody you.

You may not remember screaming it but the ringing stays in your ears. “Stop. Stop! _Stop!_ ”

So weak.

Selfish.

Foolish.

You thought you were finally taking control. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like you were losing it. Giving the pain everything you have left. Sacrificing to whatever god that’s listening. You’ve already lost your soul. And now? You’ve lost your body, too.

Your heart drops to your stomach. And no matter how agonizing it is, you cough to try putting it back to its place. Sour burps pass your tongue. Trails of drool coat your lips, your cheek, your arm.

You cough in time of your heartbeat. You cough until tears streak down your face and you wipe them off with icy fingertips. You cough until he comes.

You don’t hear him enter your room but you feel a pair of arms circle around your waist. A hand slides up and down your back. Firm and reassuring but careful not to touch your wounds.

You don’t remember calming down. You don’t remember being taken to the bathroom to get cleaned up. What you _do_ remember is that he refuses to properly look at you.

You have shared your burden with him and now he hates himself. And _he hates you_ for it.

\--

He leaves you the next week. He tells you that he’ll send one or two of his sisters to take care of you. “They’ll make a better company,” he says. You hope that he sends Vanessa. And maybe sweet Lana.

You’re so tired, you don’t even get angry. You should be. He’s abandoning you _again_. But you don’t. You feel nothing. Maybe it’s because you _are_ nothing.

Still, pettiness becomes you and you utter a half a lie: “I hate you.”

And maybe he’s just as exhausted as you are because he only replies, “I know.”

\--

Fate is a cruel mistress and you’re the bitch that licks the mud off her boots. Desperate to fill the empty, desperate to be.

The two of you meet again when all you are is hardened soil and he offers you a thunderstorm. You greedily drink and become your own master.

You start to dig and mix the earth with a purpose, a goal, a grand enemy to fight. It enriches you and you sow your first batch of seeds. Then another. And another. You let yourself grow into a field of poppies.

While he becomes a forest of tall, lush trees. And every time you tilt your head up to the gaps of sunlight, the warmth of the tomorrow he will bring kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

And despite yourself, you fall in love with a man.

You’re so disgusting.

Foolish.

We—

 _No._ It will be different. Why?

 _Because you’re falling for a king_.

\--

It’s years later when you point another gun at him.

A lot of time has passed and you’ve healed. But the cold tunnels contract the uneven skin on your back. There’s an irregular throb just below your shoulder blade, reminding you of how it felt then.

You look at him and see the same hell-bringer from that god-forsaken desert. Well, not quite. He has the same heavy bags and the same sunken cheeks. But his lips are curled in a scowl and his eyes are sharp. His face glows with hatred and fury.

You can’t afford to do the same thing you did seven years ago. You have to end this. 

But you both have grown so much.

You’re braver.

Wiser.

Stronger.

 _I have to end this_ , you think but maybe you don’t have to pull the trigger. Keep your faith in him. _Wait_.

He asks you what your plan is. And you tell him the truth. You tell him you’re going to do what you couldn’t do.

Your hands shake and every second passing makes your arm go heavier. Fear is the tailing shadows that are becoming bigger and longer every time he snaps. But you _will not_ stand down. You won’t double-over as you did in the past.

Because you know that heaven’s rain will fall. And the trees you have been planting won’t burn this time. Your flowers will continue to bloom tomorrow.

You promised him and yourself that you will not fail a second time.

And you know he won’t fail, too _._

“You have to end this,” you whisper.

He finally looks at you.

And you breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially planned to end this on the part where Roy leaves but I couldn't help myself. Heh.
> 
> Also, also. If you're ever having thoughts of suicide or harming yourself in any way, **please reach out to someone**. A friend, a family member, a loved one, your therapist/psychiatrist, or a certified counselor. **[HERE](https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html)** is a list of Suicide Hotlines all around the world and **[HERE](https://www.suicidestop.com/suicide_prevention_chat_international.html)** is a list of chat rooms if you rather do that than call. 
> 
> And please be mindful that self-harm doesn't only mean cutting or burning yourself. It can also mean purposefully not eating or sleeping. Or actively searching for stressors. Please take care of yourself. And know that you aren't alone. (づ◡﹏◡)づ


	2. PODFIC NOW AVAILABLE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! This was actually written as a podfic so I can practice my sound-editing skillszzxshch. But then I chickened out on posting LMAO. BUT! I got a new mic! So I decided to record the 'warning' and the end note of this. I know I should have rerecorded the whole thing but... eh ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ LMAO. Besides... it's been raining a lot here recently. And when I cut out the rain from the recording, it ends up sounding a bit hollow and scratchy (as heard from the 'warning' and the end note).

  


### Details

  * **Length:** 13:09
  * **File type:** MP3 (32.0 MB)



### Stream and Download

  * On Google Drive [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Sku4aklOR9qo4l5YDS2uZCEKOWVyNHBU/view?usp=sharing)
  * On Internet Archive [here](https://archive.org/details/podfic-breathe.)



### Credits

  * **Author & Narrator:** [Angel_Bazethiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Bazethiel)
  * **Music:** Royalty-Free Music Sites ([bensound](https://www.bensound.com/), [purple-planet](https://www.purple-planet.com/), [jamendo](https://www.jamendo.com))




End file.
